


Before This Dance is Through

by RileyC



Category: DCU, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Humor, Dancing, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-16
Updated: 2011-08-16
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:04:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A party in Gotham, replete with reality TY stars, and epiphanies for the boys</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before This Dance is Through

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the WF Birthday Challenge prompt: Clark and Bruce are at a party and one of them has to dance with someone that’s a HORRIBLE dancer (and not just because they have 2 left feet). The other rescues them by cutting in, and they dance so well together they finally realize their feelings for each other.

That Venice Beech was currently making a spectacle of herself at the latest Gotham City charity bash was in no way remarkable. She was, after all, the latest celebutante famous for no reason except a notorious sex tape, being in and out of rehab, and starring in a reality show where her chief claims to fame were rarely wearing underwear or going an entire episode without getting falling down drunk.

That she was including Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter for _The Daily Planet_ , in her self-indulgent exhibition was a different matter entirely.

Bruce Wayne had found it amusing, at first, when Venice had tottered up to them on her strappy stilettos, declaring Clark to be, _“Just the most fuckable thing I ever did see,”_ and dragging him onto the dance floor. Cute guys in glasses, it seemed, made her hotter than asphalt on the Fourth of July.

Bruce had ignored Clark’s imploring look to save him because, for one thing, it meant _he_ was spared her attentions. And for a second thing, he owed Clark some payback for almost getting himself killed by Luthor two days ago, when Bruce had _explicity_ told him to stay the hell on the Watchtower and let him take care of things. That Clark had disobeyed him to come to Bruce’s rescue was entirely beside the point.

Now, however, as Venice used Clark like a stripper pole, giving everyone in the hotel ballroom way too good a show – _did the tramp stamp above her thong really say PARTY ZONE, with an arrow pointing downward?_ – Bruce decided things had gone far enough. He especially didn’t like that far too many people were watching the spectacle and having a laugh at Clark’s expense.

The Kryptonian from Kansas might be a dork, but he was _Bruce’s_ dork, damn it.

Frowning at that thought, Bruce took a suspicious sip of his drink, deducing there must have been a mix-up and he’d gotten a real glass of champagne. His perplexity deepened at discovering the bubbly beverage in his glass was, indeed, his usual ginger ale.

Huh. Well, with all the liquor freely flowing around here, perhaps he had inhaled enough fumes to get a bit tipsy?

Pondering the likelihood of second hand drunkeness, Bruce made his way across the dance floor to where Venice was climbing Clark like a tree, humping herself against him (and likely incapable of appreciating any irony in the band playing _The Lady is a Tramp_ ). For his part, Clark looked like he wanted nothing more in the world than to be able to soar right through the roof and go die of embarrassment. And if he turned any redder, he’d be the exact color of the strapless mini dress Venice was about to pop out of – and sure enough, they had nipple exposure.

Bruce tapped her on the shoulder, cutting in, as she giggled at Clark and ineffectually tugged at her dress, both surgically enhanced breasts pretty much on display to the whole room now. “Your fifteen minutes are up.”

She blinked at him stupidly, slurring, “What? Who the fuck’re you?”

Tempting though it was to growl, _“I’m Batman,”_ at her, he contented himself with, “The guy whose boyfriend you’re fucking with,” with just a barely there undercurrent of the Batman to make an impression.

Her blank stare cleared for an infinitesimal fraction of an instant as she looked from him to Clark and back again. “Yeah? Is your name tattooed on his ass?” she returned, clearly believing this to be a witty riposte worthy of Dorothy Parker.

Bruce smiled, all Bat now. “You’ll never know now, will you?”

Her eyes widened, some vague sort of comprehension momentarily igniting a few brain cells. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I don’t got more important things to be doing,” she declared, pulling her imaginary dignity around her and flouncing off – breasts still falling out and five-inch heels threatening to make her fall on her ass any second.

Bruce forgot her the instant she was out of sight.

“You okay?” he asked Clark, who had been standing there, gaping wide-eyed all this time.

“Umm,” Clark swallowed, nodded, pushed at his glasses. “I think so. Thank you,” he said, his color returning to normal as Bruce guided him over to the sidelines.

“And the next time I tell you to do something, for your own good,” Bruce reached over to straighten Clark’s bow tie, smoothing his hands along the broad shoulders, “you’ll listen to me?” Looking him up and down, taking in the well-cut tuxedo, Bruce had to admit that when Clark made the effort he cleaned up rather nicely.

“I always listen to you, Bruce, but I have to make my own call sometimes.”

“Not when a maniac with a fixation about you is armed to the teeth with Kryptonite.”

“I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

“I was right on the verge of escaping, Clark.”

Clark gave him a hard look, reminding Bruce that Superman was there underneath the tuxedo and behind the glasses. “You were right on the verge of _dead_ , Bruce.”

“Yes, well…” He couldn’t deny matters had been approaching a fairly critical stage when Clark had come busting in; still, Bruce felt certain that, given sufficient time, he would have come up with something. As arguments went, however, he recognized this one contained several weak points.

Head tilted, watching him curiously, Clark prompted him after a moment, “So…?”

“So,” Bruce stepped closer as the band started up an old childhood favorite of his, _I’m Happy Just to Dance with You_ , “shall we?”

Lagging a few moves behind, Clark asked, “Shall we what?”

Bruce caught hold of Clark’s hands. “Dance.”

“You’re not serious,” Clark said even as Bruce maneuvered them back onto the dance floor.

“Do I look like I’m not serious?”

“I can never tell.”

Bruce smiled. “Try moving your feet.”

Clark moved his feet, holding Bruce more naturally. “Who’s leading?”

Bruce smiled some more.

Clark rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I just keep setting myself up, don’t I?”

It was awkward for a moment, Clark adjusting to Bruce taking the lead, but they settled into a fairly comfortable rhythm after that. Anyone looking on – and more than a few were – might imagine they moved together like this all the time. In some sense Bruce supposed they did. Things would be odd indeed if, after all this time of having each other’s backs in so many battles, they weren’t familiar with each other’s moves.

There was something to be said for achieving that same level of synchronicity without first having to thwart the malevolent plans of assorted psychopaths and supervillains. Quite a bit to be said, actually, Bruce decided as the pulse of the music seemed to draw them closer together.

Close enough he could tell Clark had used an unscented shampoo today, but his cologne was an enticing blend of citrus scents with – Bruce leaned closer, almost nuzzling along Clark’s jaw – yes, with a trace of caramel and just a sexy suggestion of musk. And underneath that, just … Clark, making him think of sunshine and starlight – and that ginger ale really must have been spiked because how else did this make any sense? It especially didn’t make sense that detecting some faint trace of Venice clinging to Clark made Bruce want to curl his lip and growl.

“People are going to talk, Bruce,” Clark said, sounding a bit shaky, almost breathless, his hold tightening on Bruce for a moment.

“Of course they’re going to talk, Clark. It’s been simply ages since Brucie gave them a good piece of juicy gossip.” Bruce spoke the words airily, expecting them to make Clark laugh. Instead, a flash of hurt disappointment showed in those blue eyes, there and gone so swiftly Bruce might have imagined it.

He knew he hadn’t.

“Clark—“

And Clark smiled as he said, “Well this should keep them going for a few weeks,” but there was a falseness, a forced quality to the brightness of that smile, and for a second it hurt Bruce to see it.

For more than a second, actually.

“Clark, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No.”

Then why weren’t they in synch anymore? Bruce wondered as they both stumbled over each other’s feet.

Apologetic, Clark mumbled, “Excuse me,” and slipped free of Bruce’s grasp. “I…” he jabbed an index finger at his glasses, “I need some air?”

Nodding, Bruce said, “Sure, of course,” and watched him hurry off through the crowd, onlookers murmuring, snickering in his wake, and Bruce was sharply reminded that there were levels of malevolence in the world that had nothing to do with the likes of the Joker and Lex Luthor.

He waited exactly thirty seconds before following after Clark, not giving a damn what any of them said about him.

~*~

He found Clark out in the moonlit courtyard, leaning against a tree as the cool breeze stirred fallen leaves scattered across the ground, looking up at the clear, night sky.

“I thought you might have taken off.”

Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug implying Clark had thought about it.

“Was my dancing that bad?”

Clark looked at him then, uncertainty written over his handsome face. “Your dancing is like everything you do, Bruce,” he said, starting to reach out as if to touch him, hand dropping away as he whispered the last word, “perfect.”

“If that’s true,” Bruce moved closer, wanting that touch, a little desperate for it, in fact, “why did you leave me alone on the dance floor?”

Clark glanced at him, then away, arms folded protectively over his chest. “I’ve exceeded my quota for looking like a fool for one night, Bruce.”

Making an irritated noise in his throat, Bruce said, “If you’re about to lump me in with Vienna--“

“Venice.”

“—I may have to bring out a certain ring.”

Clark cast a wary look his way. “The kind that comes in a blue box from Tiffany’s?”

Bruce snorted. “You wish.” He stepped even closer, enjoying the warmth radiating off Clark. “Come here,” he said, pulling Clark to him and resuming their dance as the music drifted out to them.

“Bruce, this is—“

“Something we should have done a long time ago.”

“I don’t think we could have,” Clark was relaxing in his arms now, almost nestling into him, and Bruce couldn’t believe how good that felt, “not a long time ago.”

Cradling the back of Clark’s head, fingers sliding through black silk, Bruce nodded, admitting, “Maybe you’re right.”

“Wow, and would you look at that, not a sign of the apocalypse happening.”

“You know, if your adoring public had any idea what a smartass you can b—mmmph…“ Bruce found his brilliant comeback thoroughly, wondrously silenced by a kiss. And then he couldn’t have strung three words together if his life depended on it, because _Clark was kissing him_. Clark was kissing him, and it was warm and soft and perfect and there wasn’t even any tongue until the very end.

“Is this all right?” Clark asked, anxious, touching Bruce’s face, then his shoulders, chest, as if he couldn’t make up his mind where to put his hands.

Framing his face, kissing him some more, not stinting on tongue, Bruce murmured, “No, it’s terrible, I hate it.”

This time Clark did laugh, and the jolt of pleasure Bruce experienced from that was completely unexpected.

“Mind the ribs,” he said, trying not to wince as Clark’s hands caressed and kneaded along his flank.

“Sorry.” Clark let his hand curve along Bruce’s waist, his touch delicate as butterfly wings. “Still sore?”

“Little bit.” He leaned into Clark, soaking up his heat. “You’re better than a ThermaPad,” he said, to hear that laugh again, and also because it was true.

“Thanks. I think.” Clark ran one hand up Bruce’s back, slowly down again. “You could have just asked me out on a date without all this.”

Head resting comfortably on a broad shoulder, moving with the music again – something slower, bluesy and sexy drifting on the air – Bruce said, “I didn’t know I wanted to, not until all this.” He pulled back to look into Clark’s face, searching those blue eyes. “Did you?”

Clark’s smile was a little wistful, a lot intimate, and somehow Bruce knew he’d never smiled like that for anyone else in the world. “I had an inkling.”

“You should have said something.”

Head tilted, there was a glint in those eyes that said, _Yeah, right_. Out loud Clark said, “Yes, because,” and he lowered his voice to a dead on imitation of the Batman growl, “’get out of my city’ is Batspeak for _‘Hello, I love you.’_ ”

Actually it had been Batspeak for, _Hello, you’re fascinating, but I need some time to figure out if I can trust a godlike alien who could crush me, and the whole world, like an ant._ But they had pretty much covered all of that by now. “That was a very long time ago. We’ve made progress since then.”

“We have.”

“And I told Vienna—“

“Venice.”

“—you were my boyfriend. You wouldn’t want to make a liar of me, would you?”

“Never,” Clark said, kissing him again, not as soft this time.

Bruce groaned into it as Clark’s tongue glided against his. He grabbed Clark’s head, fingers arched as they pressed into his scalp. “How fast can you get us to the Manor?”

“Pretty fast.”

“Don’t smirk. Superman never smirks.”

“Clark Kent could smirk.”

“No. It’s a Batman registered trademark.”

“See why I can never tell if you’re kidding?”

Bruce smirked, to show him how it was done.

“Ready?” Clark asked.

“Umm?” He could feel Clark’s arms clamping firmly around him, swore he could feel energy surging through the powerful body as Clark prepared to take off. “Oh. Wait. Wait,” he said, urgent, pushing at Clark’s shoulders.

Powering down, arms falling away, Clark gave him a guarded look. “What’s wrong?”

Bruce put a hand out to touch him, reassure him. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just…” He sighed, looked away, back at the hotel, its ballroom full of glittering people. “There will be gossip.”

Clark nodded.

“Some of it will get malicious.”

Clark nodded again.

“Are you sure you want to take that on? And don’t just nod again.”

Clark smiled, a tinge of sadness coloring it. “Is there any other way I can have you?” he asked, voice husky as he trailed a finger along Bruce’s face.

A jolt of … excitement? pleasure? … coursed straight through him at those words, at the erotic promises in them. “Oh hell,” he stepped close, wrapping his arms around Clark, “we’ll think of something.”

“They don’t call us the World’s Finest for nothing,” Clark murmured against his ear, darting his tongue against the shell, one hand cradling Bruce’s head.

“Mmm.” Bruce pressed into him, his warmth, his touch, craving it. “That is very true. But,” he put a hand against Clark’s chest, pushing back just enough to form a thought that went beyond touch, kiss, sex, “maybe we should call Alfred to bring the car around.”

After a moment’s consideration, Clark nodded. “I suppose it might raise a few questions if Clark Kent was seen flying with Bruce Wayne in his arms.”

“Just a few, yes,” Bruce said.

Seeking a brief respite in the ordinary, he took out his phone and called Alfred. “Clark and I are ready to leave, Alfred. Could you bring the car around?”

“Of course, sir,” Alfred said, nothing in those three words betraying that he suspected anything was different, that anything momentous had occurred.

But then it wouldn’t have surprised Bruce if Alfred had seen this coming for years.

“He’ll meet us out front in a couple of minutes,” Bruce said, joining Clark by the pool – emptied now, for the season, dried leaves scattered across the bottom. “Didn’t summers used to last longer?”

“Not as long as that last week of school before summer vacation.”

“The very definition of eternity.” Bruce smiled, kissing the back of his neck. He wondered what it would be like to have Clark’s memories, of long Kansas summer days straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He wondered if he was giving those imagined memories an unrealistic rosy tint. “Were they idyllic?” he asked. “Your summers growing up?” He looped his arms around Clark, chin propped on his shoulder.

“Sometimes.”

Bruce tightened his hold, kissed him again. “I anticipate both of us developing a strong partiality for autumn.”

“Yeah?” Clark turned to face him, hold him, that smile that was just for Bruce back in his eyes. “What about winter?”

“That too,” Bruce murmured between kisses.

“And spring?”

“Mmm hmm. And summers will never pass in a blink of an eye again,” Bruce finished, knowing the fragility of such promises, but holding on tight to them all the same.


End file.
